


Inevitable

by Waffleberry



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant to the end of S5, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waffleberry/pseuds/Waffleberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has thought about it so many times in the summer break; of course he has; and what he has deduced is that it wasn’t just Racquel that broke in that lab. Something between them fractured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, this ship. They won't leave me alone. I couldn't seem to forget the look on Jeff's face while listening to Annie in the basement; the look on his face when he walked past the Dean on his way out. Something had to be done.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the result!

She’s so beautiful, he thinks, not for the first time, as he looks at her. She is stunning in a way that he can’t adequately describe. It isn’t just that she’s gorgeous (because she totally is and he is pretty confident he’s let her know that at some point) but there's a radiance that diffuses from her which he simply is not able to define. It’s quite sobering, really; she captivates him in a way that leaves him - of all people - at a loss for words.

She’s standing at a picnic table that’s a fair distance away from the bench he’s appropriated as his own but it’s still close enough for him to see the expressions playing out on her face. He wants to say that he isn’t sure how he got roped into attending Greendale’s celebratory back-to-school picnic – because the fact that there’s a Greendale to return to is cause enough for a celebration of epic proportions but they’ll settle for a weekend afternoon on their field – but he knows exactly why. He’s now part of Greendale and Greendale is part of him, so this is where he should be.

Plus, Annie’s here. And he isn’t even hiding from the fact that she’s an enticement.

Right now she’s chatting with some kid at the drinks station and the guy is obviously flirting with her. He knows what it looks like, he’s adept at it – the body language, the way he’s trying to hold her gaze, not counting the fact that it’s been over five minutes since she handed him his drink and dude’s still hanging around talking to her. He notes the three-quarter length shorts, white tee-shirt and flip flops her would-be suitor is wearing and he tries to determine how welcome the attention is on her end. She’s smiling, yes, but it’s Annie and they saved Greendale – _she_ saved Greendale, he told her that – so of course she’s happy.

Jeff can’t blame the guy, either. She’s in a summery lavender dress that sets off her dark chocolate waves that she’s pinned back just so, falling softly against her jaw and making her eyes seem even more blue. The cut of the dress expertly showcases her tantalizingly creamy legs and it’s one of the few times he’s been able to appreciate her this way without feeling guilty. Because now he knows that it’s not just lust.

He has thought about it so many times in the summer break; of course he has; and what he has deduced is that it wasn’t just Racquel that broke in that lab. Something between them fractured. When she effectively told him that she was letting him go, when she essentially gave up on him, some part of him ruptured. Annie had never given up on him but she did then. That was the moment that he really lost her – not when he tried to keep their kiss a secret, not when he told her that it was all in her head, not even when he had proposed to Britta; he lost her the moment she decided to let him go.

Yet somehow, in relinquishing him, in deciding to let him chase after his delusion of happiness, she toppled whatever paltry barrier still existed between them. If she was willing to stop fighting him, to stop pushing him to do the right thing, then it meant that she was willing to give up – on him, on them. And that, he thinks, is what broke him. The absolute devastation that overtook him in that basement was later explained by the realisation that he didn't want to give up on the idea of him and Annie. He didn't want to give her up at all.

So now, he’s taken up where she left off; taken up the mantle and is no longer denying the truth. The fact is, no matter how much he denies it, it will not go away, even if they both try. The proof lies in the scene before him – Greendale lives to fight another day because to save them, all he had to do was look at her and accept what they were; what he wanted them to be.

If he has to admit it, the fact is, he’s envious of that punk right now. It’s not like he’s young and can flirt with her that effortlessly; he is, after all, seventeen years her senior. He has had to rein it in, for both their sakes, and deprive himself of that kind of interaction with her. He hasn’t wanted to lead her on but he’s realised that he has never been able to avoid it – the long looks, the stolen glances; hell, the Annie of it all. It has never been harmless flirting with them and they’ve both known that, no matter how hard he pretended it was. There were always genuine moments between them and the truth has left his lips more times than he ever intended whenever they managed to be alone.

He sprawls his arms out along the back of the bench on either side of him, lolling his head back as he bares his face to the sun for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in deeply and enjoying the warmth. His movement must have caught her attention because when he lifts his head and opens his eyes again, he finds her looking directly at him, amusement marking her face.

There they are, he thinks, at it again. She is in conversation with another person and there they are, sharing an intimate moment smack dab in the midst of it. How did he ever convince himself that this was perfectly normal; that  _this_ happened with everyone?

The longer she looks in his direction, the more he begins to wonder if she wants his help in getting rid of the guy and there is a part of him hopes that’s the case. Not that Annie needs help looking after herself; she has proven that she’s more than capable of that. No, part of him wants to have an excuse to go over there and casually sling his arm around her shoulder, pull her into his body and plop a kiss on that exposed piece of skin right where her shoulder meets her neck. Feeling territorial is strange to him; he doesn’t think he has ever cared enough about a woman to want her all to himself until now. Feeling territorial about Annie is a whole other kettle of fish, because he knows he has always felt that way – he has to look no further than his antics when she was involved with Vaughn or was interested in Rich – but he has always tried to make it appear as if he were being guided by other, more noble reasons.

White tee-shirt finally moves away from her and she momentarily disappears from his sight, bending down to grab something before straightening up and strolling his way. He notices that she’s holding two beers in her hands, one clearly for him, being the brand that he likes, and one that’s more her style – fruity and light. It shouldn’t even be classified as beer, in his opinion, but he doesn’t care all that much if it means he can sit with her and enjoy one.

She sits down next to him, proffering his drink and he smiles as he lazily moves his arm from its stretched-out resting place to take it from her.

“Thanks for making sure these were part of the drink selection,” he tells her.

She smiles brightly, and he knows that she’s pleased her efforts are appreciated. He also knows that he likes how she’s positioned so close to him, having settled herself well within the span of the arm that's still lying on the back of the bench.

Caught in each other’s orbits, he thinks. That’s how it’s been since the beginning.

After taking a sip of his beer, he tilts the bottle toward the spot she was previously in and asks, “Was that guy bothering you?”

She shakes her head, a thought crossing her mind and she’s smiling as she responds, “No, but if he had been, were you going to come rescue me?”

Her teasing tone elicits the smile she seeks from him and he gulps another mouthful of beer before shrugging and telling her, “You know me. Can’t refuse a pretty damsel in distress.”

She angles her head at him and asserts, “Jeff Winger. Greendale’s very own knight in shining armour.”

He smirks a bit at that, his fingers drumming idly on the wood behind her, an outlet for his restlessness. He’s delighted that she could think that; it fits in with their whole _Milady. Milord_ rapport; but she still gives him way more credit than he deserves, seeing him as this person who is much better than he actually is and it makes him uncomfortable. Sometimes, though, he believes he aspires to live up to the image she has of him – just because she expects more from him and he does not like disappointing her.

“Careful there, Annie,” he warns her, “You’re starting to sound like Craig.”

She grins at him, entirely playful with mischief glinting in the depths of her blue eyes.

“So he’s ‘Craig’ now, is he?” She giggles. “I’m sure he would be absolutely thrilled to hear that.”

He dips his head and the look he shoots her is meant to be chastising but he’s certain it does not have its intended effect because then she’s winking at him and continuing, “Pretty soon, you’ll be telling me that you two are best buds!”

He has to confess, he’s a little thrown by the warm, carefree flow of their conversation. The day they recovered Greendale marked a distinct turning point in their relationship – not just because of what they both realised in the lab, but because of how they both started acting on account of it.

He noticed (how could he not?) her withdrawal from him. She stopped seeking him out for, well, anything. All interaction initiated by her these past few months had centered around coordinating group gatherings – dinners, laser tag, that sort of thing. He had become so accustomed to being part of random moments of her life – a photo of a shirt she thought he would like while she was out shopping; a link to a book about Florence the Nightingale, with a reference to the blanket/pillow fort standoff; a shot of the design in her vanilla latte, asking him if he thought it looked like Snoop Dogg (or Lion, or whatever his moniker was at the time) – that his life now feels somewhat empty without her there to fill it up.

So instead, he’s taken to sending her messages, all with the purpose of letting her know he thinks about her. It’s little things, like letting her know Staples has a sale so she can get all the purple pens her heart desires or recommending a book he’s come across in planning for his next semester of teaching that he thinks would be good for her forensic science studies. It's not exactly new for them - they always did like to talk to each other - but now her responses aren’t as effusive as they once might have been. Still he’s grateful that she hasn’t completely let him out of her life.

“Jeff is best buds with whom?” Abed has snuck up on them and they quickly turn towards him, both startled at how easily they were taken by surprise.

“Oh, hey Abed!” Annie greets him. “I was just teasing Jeff that he and the Dean are so close now, they’re practically best friends.”

“Well, they do live next to each other so it’s plausible,” Abed considers. “But the Dean is doomed if that’s his end goal.” He looks at Jeff. “He’s not Jeff’s type.”

Jeff’s forehead creases in confusion. “I have a type of best friend?” he asks, disbelievingly.

“You have a type of everything,” Abed informs him.

He squints at Abed, wondering what conclusions the latter has already drawn about him and his types.

“So what’s my type, Abed? Or who?”

“Oh, no. No, no. That would be telling,” Abed shakes his head once. “And I digress. Shirley sent me to get you two to join us under the tree.”

He points to an area behind them and slightly to their left and they notice that there’s an inviting spread set up under a large, shady tree, picnic blanket and all. Shirley is waving them over while Britta walks away, having jus dropped off some napkins to Rachel and Annie immediately jumps up, strolling towards them.

Jeff stares after her, observing the way the breeze molds her dress to her body, clearly outlining her curves as she moves. He’s about to follow her when he sees Abed watching him.

“You have your ‘Annie’ look,” Abed says in reply to Jeff’s unasked _What?_

He raises one eyebrow and slowly repeats, “My ‘Annie look’?”

Abed grants him an exasperated glance. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Jeff. You know what I’m talking about.”

With that, he walks the same path that Annie has taken, leaving Jeff to trail behind them both, contemplating Abed’s words.

When he reaches them, he immediately takes the spot next to Annie, choosing to ignore the slight hesitation he feels from her when his hand lands on her shoulder to help him steady himself. He needs her to know he wants to be near to her, that he craves this proximity, so he smiles a bit when, in crossing his legs, his shoe ends up resting against hers.

“It’s so nice that we’re all here,” Shirley shares.

“Don’t have much of a choice,” he states.

When they all look at him as if he’s lost his mind, because they’re pretty sure if he doesn’t want to be there, he wouldn’t be, he points to himself and reminds them, “Staff.”

Shirley beams at him, like she’s proud of him and insists, “It’s still nice.”

“It is,” he agrees, stretching out his legs and leaning back on the left hand that he’s planted on the blanket, just behind Annie, so that their shoulders brush against each other. He lets himself touch her more these days, grateful for whatever circumstances lead to it. Ever since he became aware of the strength of what he feels for her and decided to stop fighting it - stop fighting _them_ ; because there _is_ a them; there has always been - he indulges in those brief moments of contact. He wonders if she’s aware of it; if she’s noticed how much more frequently he touches her shoulder; how much more freely his hand brushes hers or how he casually drapes his arm around her whenever they’re just standing around and chatting with other people. Part of him badly wants her to call him on it and demand clarification on what’s going on. He’s sure she’s wondering – the last she knew, he was ready to marry Britta, even though she knows they called it off – and, more importantly, he wants to tell her. But it’s Annie and after that one confrontation in the bathroom all those years ago, she’s just been content to take whatever he gives without question or discussion. It’s not fair to her; he knows that, because he knows she deserves so much more and he thinks he can at least give her that, even if he can’t give her everything.

He should just tell her, he muses. She should know – he wants her to know.

Maybe he hasn’t told her yet because he wasn’t certain of what would happen after, what his intentions were. All the numerous times he has tried to work up the courage to just confess the nature of what saved Greendale, he has never been able to figure out what they would do next. Maybe it doesn’t work out because she has put him in her past, along with the other addiction she got rid of (although he believes she isn’t quite yet beyond him, and that isn’t ego talking – it’s more like hope) or maybe they can figure it out because this is the most sincere interest he’s ever had in a woman.

He’s enjoying lounging on the blanket with her, reveling in the fact that she’s still leaning against him and hasn’t pulled away when Britta stalks towards them with intent, disbelief clearly etched on her face.

“Jeff!” she cries, accusation lacing her tone.

“Britta,” he replies calmly, raising his eyes to meet her face in an attempt to decipher what has her so riled up. He senses when Annie shifts, moving away from him and the loss he feels at the space now between them surprises even him.

“Is it true?” Britta carries on. “It can’t be true but I just have to ask because, well, it’s Greendale and you never know, but is it true? Because if it is, oh brother, you are going to need so many sessions with me AND Duncan!”

He furrows his brows at her question, wondering what insanity Greendale has thrown his way now.

“I can neither confirm nor deny it, seeing as I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he retorts, perceiving disaster on the horizon.

Britta bends at her waist, bringing herself to his eye-level and informs him, “Borchert’s been trying to figure out how you jump-started his love computer –“

“Racquel,” Abed interjects.

Britta’s head snaps to Abed before swiveling back to Jeff.

“How you jump-started Racquel,” she amends with a peremptory glance at Abed, “and the Dean insists it was your undying passion for _him_.”

She straightens up, folding her arms across her chest and pinning him in place with her energised stare as she dares him, “Now tell me – is this true?”

He’s groaning internally as he sits up, resting his arms across his knees and staring at the tartan pattern on the blanket in front of him. He’ll deny it, of course he will; he doesn’t care if the Dean misinterpreted their glance in the lab; but he does wonder if that will be enough to get them off his back. He hopes it is.

“Oh come on, Britta. You know better than that.”

She smiles at him, relieved and he is shocked at how easy it was.

“I do. I just had to check. But, the Dean is on his way here with Borchert, to get it straight from the horse’s mouth, so good luck convincing him so easily!”

His mouth drops and it takes him a while to realise that he’s gaping before he slams it shut, his jaw hard with the irritation building inside him.

“They’re coming here?” he asks incredulously. “Well, that’s just great.”

Abed, being Abed, decides to raise the question Jeff does not want to address. “You never did tell us what you did to open the door, Jeff.”

Everyone looks at Abed and he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Since Borchert is a scientist, he probably just wants to know what makes his machine tick. It was broken, if you remember.”

Rachel nods next to him, having heard the story one too many times. “And we’re about to see if you’re right, “because here they come.”

A moment after she announces them, the Dean and Borchert walk up to the group. The Dean’s expression is ridiculously self-satisfied, and while that could be attributed to the fact that he’s wearing a pair of short floral overalls and not looking a damned sight ashamed of it, Jeff is more inclined to believe that it’s because he thinks Jeff has passionate feelings for him.

“Jeffrey!” the Dean begins, with so much delight in his tone that Jeff thinks he might actually be sick.

He holds up his right hand to stop the Dean and informs them, “I know why you’re here, Dean.”

The Dean parks his hands on his hips and shakes his head at Jeff. “So formal, Jeffrey! You know you can call me Craig in front of your friends. There’s nothing to be ashamed of here.” 

Apparently the small talk is too much for Borchert because he pushes past the Dean to confront Jeff. Even though Jeff has seen Borchert in the few months since their first encounter, he’s still amazed by the physical transformation. Having cut his hair, trimmed his beard and tamed the monstrosities that were his fingernails and toenails, Borchert actually looks like a respectable college professor; one intelligent enough to know what he’s teaching.

“Well, there could be,” the founder of Greendale contradicts, “but that doesn’t concern me.” He looks at Jeff and his expression is pleading. “Young man, I need you to tell me what you did to make Racquel open the door. Did you think of something in particular?”

Jeff stalls, wondering if he can avoid revealing the nature of what saved Greendale. They're all looking at him now he caves and nods, grateful that the question was leading. If he lets Borchert ask the questions, maybe he won't have to give away too much. He doesn’t want to spill the truth about it in front of everyone, not when he hasn’t had a chance to tell Annie first.

“I thought of something I’m passionate about,” he concedes.

Britta gives a snort as she grins at him. “I bet it was scotch! Scotch saved Greendale!” She pumps her fists in the air and he smiles at that, because it would be fitting if that were the reality.

The Dean is affronted and accosts her with, “Oh please, Britta, it was not scotch. It was a person, I’m sure of it.”

Abed jumps in theorising, “It didn’t have to be a person. It just needed to be something that Jeff was passionate about, right, Professor?”

Borchert agrees. “Whatever floats his boat, I guess.”

“And that doesn’t have to be a person, it could be a thing, or a thought, a memory even,” Abed maintains.

“People, people!” the Dean bellows, “We’re not giving Mr. Winger his due credit!”

While they’re all debating whether or not he felt passionate about a person or a thing, Annie touches his arm and he feels as if he has been waiting on this moment all day; because when he looks at her, it’s like his heart is beating out of his chest and he can’t breathe – he feels that same burst of emotion that opened the door to the lab. It’s been happening whenever his gaze lands on her and he takes her in; it gets even more powerful when she meets his eyes. Now that he’s given in to it, there’s no holding back. There isn't anything he can do about it - he knows; he been trying for years - and honestly, he doesn’t _want_ to do anything about it. It’s irrefutable, a truth of life and he feels so much better now that he simply accepts it.

So when their eyes lock and it’s like they’re in their own world, with her conveying something only the two of them would understand, harkening back to how she used to look at him before his engagement, he doesn’t push back down the joy rising in his chest, but instead cherishes the intimacy of the moment.

“It’s okay, you know,” she tells him conspiratorially, voice low and somewhat seductive. “We won’t judge you if it was scotch.”

He doesn’t know what possesses him in that moment, but he leans in, closing the distance between them because he wants her, and only her, to hear what he says next. His voice is soft, his eyes trained on hers as he states, “It wasn’t scotch.”

He wants so badly to reach up and capture her chin between his fingers but he’s mindful of where they are and he doesn’t want to draw that much attention to them. Her eyes soften at his admission and he holds her gaze, almost whispering, “It was you.”

The words float gently in the air between them and now that he’s put them out there, there’s an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. He’s told her, finally told her the most powerful of his secrets and now it’s hers to do with it what she will.

She blushes and it’s cute, making him think he still has his flirting game but again, as always with them, it’s the truth he divulges to make her respond.

She nudges him with her shoulder, her smile waning as she chides him, “Stop kidding, Jeff.”

“I’m not kidding, Annie,” he confirms and his voice is firm and clear, leaving no room for doubt.

He sees her struggling against it, the deep breath that’s punctuated by a hard swallow. She isn’t convinced, he is absolutely sure of it; just like he’s sure that if she does not believe him, she must hate him for playing games with her.

Shirley notices their side-bar conversation and must have a suspicion of what it entails because she rests her hand on Annie’s shoulder and calls in her sing-song voice, “Annie? Did Jeff just tell you what he thought about?”

The question quiets the entire group and they all turn their attention to him and Annie. His eyes have not left her face and he knows that it’s crucial to her believing what he says.

“My dear girl,” Borchert addresses her, and all that runs through Jeff’s mind is that she isn't a girl; she's a lady - _his_ Milady, in fact. “What did he tell you?”

Annie arches her back and shakes her head slowly. “I don’t think he told me the truth, Professor, so I don’t think I can help you.”

He clenches his fist because this is a battle he will have to fight – getting her to believe – but he’s willing to do it because what's the point of lying about it? He doesn’t mind if she convinces everyone else that he’s misleading them – it will certainly aid his desire to make her know first – but he cannot bear her thinking it’s all a ruse on his part.

“That’s okay,” Borchert reassures her, “Any information at all is helpful.”

Borchert’s plaintive tone must be what gets to her because she utters the confession he made only moments ago. “He said it was me.”

Her voice is quiet, captious as she looks at him and he understands why but he really needs to be alone with her right now. The group setting is most certainly not helping.

The resounding chorus of “What!” erupts around them and once more, while everyone else is caught up in this new development, he is left staring at her and it pains him, it physically pains him, somewhere in the region of his chest, that he cannot reach out and comfort her.

“Jeff!” Britta berates him, and he knows what’s coming – how could he be so cruel, knowingly hurting Annie. But that’s what he’s trying to do – _stop_ hurting her.

“How dare you use Annie to get out of this situation!”

“I am not using her,” he bites out, anger and frustration building in him as Annie folds her arms and moves further away from him. “Not now anyway.”

She turns those goddamned doe eyes on him and he crumbles in a millisecond. To hell with it. It’s his relationship with her that’s on the line, so he thinks, to hell with them all, and focuses entirely on her. “I used her to get us out of that basement – I used what I feel for her – but I am not using her now.”

Silence reigns over their section of the field. Under ordinary circumstances, he would be amused that he has rendered them speechless but this isn’t how he would have wanted to do it.

Suddenly, Shirley’s startled “Jeffrey!” punctures their bubble. A beat later, Annie jumps up and starts moving away.

He stands and reaches for her, his hand managing to grasp hers as a whispered “Annie” leaves him. She pierces him with her eyes, the confusion and hurt playing across them, but he sees no vindication from her, no triumph at all that he has just admitted to her being right all these years. She drops her gaze and he’s left broken as she twists her wrist, pulling away from him, then turning and running to escape from them all.

He wants to race after her but he knows that he cannot; he has to deal with this – with them –  first, and history has taught him that it's better to give her some time alone. His hand slides to his back pocket – he wants to grab his phone and at least text her, let her know that he will find her and they will talk this out – but he's drawn from temptation by the sound of Abed's voice.

His friend's hand is pointing to the spot where Annie stood and he declares, more than asks, "So it was true, then."

Jeff sighs and slowly turns to face the rest of his friends. "Yes," he finally admits to them, "It's always been true."

"Oh, Jeffrey!" Shirley exclaims and he hears the pity in her voice; hears it and resents it because he has to admit that a forty year old man in love with a woman almost two decades younger is a pretty pathetic cliché. But he knows that it's not like that with Annie and him; they've never quite fit the stereotype because she was always wise beyond her years, so much more capable than even he is and that's why it was so easy for him to fall for her.

"But what about our moment in the lab?" the Dean begs, holding on to the hope of something he knows never really existed. "I saw you looking at me after you opened the door."

Somewhere along the way, he must have developed compassion – she probably pulled it from the depths of his sorry soul, like she did all his raging emotions, long hidden and buried – because he's leery of having to hurt the man's feelings.

"Did you honestly think that it was you, Craig?"

At the Dean's rigid stance, Jeff decides to be gently cruel. He realises that the Dean has been harbouring this delusion all summer, letting it foster into something believable so now he has to rip that dream away because he will not compromise Annie..

"I looked at you after I opened the door. _After_ I had looked at Annie to get it open."

The Dean's tone is hurt as he accuses, "But why would you...?"

"So no one would know the truth," Abed explains. "Jeff didn't want anyone to know about his feelings for Annie."

"Well we certainly know now!” Britta exclaims.

"And just - just what are those feelings?" Borchert asks. "What did Racquel respond to?"

Jeff stares at the ground, letting his thumb scratch the underside of his lip while he debates whether to come out with it or not. Again, he would prefer if she were the first to know but nothing about today is quite going his way and if he can get them on his side, at least get them to believe him, then maybe this whole thing could be a lot simpler.

"I'm in love with her." The words leave him easily, as if they're ingrained in his being and all he's doing is letting them breathe. It's odd, he thinks, that there's no guilt attached to it. He thought it would feel wrong, someone like him daring to love someone like Annie but all it does is feel inevitable.

Britta folds her arms and glares at him. "And you really expect us to believe that?"

He gestures helplessly at Borchert. "If you need tangible evidence, just ask the professor. And his machine."

That gets Britta thinking, even as Borchert comments, "Well it's the only thing that makes sense. Not much else is more powerful than the pleasure I get from my nipples." With that, he walks away, muttering to himself.

Jeff hears Abed and Rachel whispering to each other. They notice that they've drawn his attention so Abed faces him and begins. “You know that time it is, don’t you?”

He has absolutely no clue what is going through Abed’s brain and he’s not in the mood for games. “No, Abed, I have no idea what time it is. Probably around five?”

Abed grins, which is most definitely not the reaction he’s expecting. “No, you silly goose! It’s time for the friends-give-you-a-rousing-speech-to-go-after-your-love trope!”

Jeff smiles in spite of himself as Abed continues. “Except you’re the one that’s good with the speeches. So,” he gives Jeff an appraising look, “Give yourself one heck of a mental motivational speech and be on your way.”

Casting his glance at each one of them, he sees that they’re all nodding their encouragement (except the Dean, who just looks put out) and while he doesn’t need their approval to pursue Annie, it’s good to know that he has it, all the same. It makes him feel like he’s doing the right thing.

He strolls away from them, pulling out his phone as he does so, to bring up her contact and dial her number. There’s no answer and he calls a few more times, aimlessly walking around the campus, before finally acquiescing to the fact that she isn’t ready to deal with him. He winds up at the statue of Luis Guzman, leaning against it to send her a text.

_Can we talk? Please?_

As with his calls, he doesn’t receive a response so he thrusts his phone back into his pocket and threads his hand through his hair in exasperation. Usually he’s the one to track her down whenever she’s upset; he knows he’s drawn to her; but he decides that this time, he’ll let her come to him. He can give her that much.

But he’ll be waiting for her and he lets her know that.

_I’m heading home. You can drop by if you want. I’ll be there._

After a moment, he adds, _I hope I see you later_.

He desperately wants her to take him up on his offer. She is the only person he would ever grant such free access to him.

 

****************************************************************************

 

He takes a sip of scotch, swirling the contents of the glass absent-mindedly. His eyes have been fixed on his phone for the past few minutes, with a bit of bitterness, actually, because it's been over five hours since he last saw her and he's yet to hear from her.

Throughout the course of the evening, he has had to deal with what felt like eternally false hopes, having received messages from everyone (including Abed!), checking in to see if he'd managed to find her and work it all out. He knows he should be patient - she's been waiting years for him (and he knows this, because after Rich, there wasn't anyone else; or at least anyone else important enough for them to know about) so he can wait at least a day or two before reaching out to her. He's not sure how long he's willing to hold out - this is Annie and he's never been able to bear it when she's upset.

His phone vibrates for the umpteenth time that evening (he eventually took off the sound notifications because they'd been driving him crazy) and he wavers for a moment before getting caught up in hope again and reaching for it. The blood rushes faster through his system when he recognises that the message is from her.

_I'm downstairs. Can you buzz me in?_

He jumps up immediately, contemplating if he should just go down to meet her but he concludes that it's better to let her come to him as she wants. He presses the button that will let her in and downs the rest of his drink in an attempt to steady his sudden nerves. He quickly smoothes his shirt, justified in having not changed when he got home (he's pretty sure it was hope rather than expectation that made him keep it on) and waits for her knock.

Only when he opens the door does he realise how anxious he actually is. He's talked himself into believing there isn't a real reason for him to be but for all the years of patting her on the head, calling her "kiddo" and "platonic" shoulder touching, in that lab, she chose to let him move on – meaning she would, too, so this, right here, could very well blow up in his face.

"Hey," she greets him, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Hi!" he responds and his voice is a little too bright, trying to cover his nerves. "Come on in."

Her arm brushes his abs as she passes by him and he feels his muscles clench, even as he breathes in the heady scent of her familiar perfume. He motions to the couch and she settles into a corner, fingers tugging restlessly at the skirt of her dress. Like him, she's clothed in the same outfit from earlier and he wonders where she's been in the interim. She spies the green throw pillow she had brought to decorate his place for the Christmas party that one time and guilt pulls at him because he had deliberately hidden it when she’d gathered the rest of her things. It usually keeps him company on his bed, the spark of colour cheering him up whenever he sees it. It spent the evening on the couch with him, because he’d needed something to brighten his mood. And yes, because it reminded him of her.

"I forgot I left this here," she comments, picking it up and setting it down next to her. "So," she exhales, waiting for him to sit before she goes on, "You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah," he confirms, not really prepared in terms of what he’s about to say. He tries to gauge her mood but apart from the expected awkwardness and apprehension, he can’t read her.

"I, uh, I figure we need to talk about what happened today. You know – alone."

She peeks out at him from beneath her lashes at his last word and the air around them becomes so charged, it almost crackles with intensity. He is suddenly amused by his previous efforts to deny it because that chemistry that he said he has with everyone? Yeah, that’s a two-way street and while he’s generally been able to charm anyone he meets (one notable exception being that debate judge in their first year at Greendale – what was up with that, by the way?), no one can quite enchant him the way she can. He’s drawn to her in a way that he cannot quite overcome. And while he has intended to tamp it down, he has never really been able to.

When he told her that she had imagined it all – cruelly, he admits – he lied; because he _knows_ that his gaze doesn’t fall on anyone else as automatically as it does on her; he _knows_ that he will never get caught staring that long at anyone else and not even realise it; and he _knows_ that he is usually hyper aware of her in a way that he has never cared to be for anyone else before – always picking up on how close she is to him or how she's feeling. Yes, he cares about what she thinks of him – a little too much to be frank; her well-being is important to him. _She_ is important to him. He needs her to be okay. And he always detests being the reason she isn’t. It’s why he’s been wrapped around her finger for so long. He knew she was dangerous the moment he was willing to break a sweat for her.

"Well," she announces, the lilt in her voice belying her calm exterior, "Here we are. Alone. So, talk."

He angles himself towards her, arm positioned on the back of the couch with his fingers stretching in an attempt to somehow get closer to her. "You first,” he prods.

"I don’t –," her gaze flits away from him and then back again as she considers what to say, "I don’t know what you expect me to say."

There is only really one place they can begin so he decides it’s probably the best one. "Do you believe me?"

She goes completely still and he imagines he understands how she feels. He’s asking her to lay herself bare and he gets that she has been vulnerable to him one too many times so she probably isn’t keen on him asking her to be so again.

"I don’t know," she tells him, shrugging her shoulders, looking a little hopeless.

At her expression, he moves closer, his hand rising to cradle her cheek. He glimpses her involuntary reaction, her leaning into him and his heart thrills at the gesture.

"Do you want to?" he asks.

Her eyes are large, shining with moisture as she whispers, "I don’t know."

His thumb trails along the line of her cheekbone and the warmth seeping from her into him makes him bold; it delves into him and reaches him at his core, pulling the truth from deep within him. "It’s true, you know, whether you believe it or not."

She shakes her head and pulls away, leaving him amazed at how cold he feels, despite the alcohol flowing through his body.

"You want me to believe that even though you were engaged to Britta at the time, you looked at me and felt a burst of passion?" She sounds extremely skeptical, as if he's out of his mind for entertaining the idea.

"Yes." It's the only thing he says but he says it with conviction, so that she cannot doubt the veracity of what he's telling her.

She seems to ponder it for a moment, clearly struggling with her thoughts before blurting out, "Was it my boobs?"

He can't stop the laugh that escapes him and after his initial shock, he teases, "While I undoubtedly understand how they can incite passionate thoughts in anyone," - he can't believe that this is the time he chooses to acknowledge to her that he thinks she's hot, albeit in a roundabout way-, "they didn't help me to open the door."

The blush that appeared at his confession, making her all the more adorable and entirely appealing, is replaced by genuine curiosity.

"So then what did? What did you think about?"

A wistful smile ghosts over his lips at the memory and he thinks he's being silly because now he feels a twinge of shyness. He folds his arms across his chest, tapping his foot against the floor. He confides, "I thought about our thing."

"Our _thing_?" she asks loudly and he can tell that he surprised her. "What thing?"

"You know," he cajoles,"that thing we do."

She stops for a moment, her head tilted as she tries to guess what he means. "The head pat?"

He smirks, because that is most certainly a thing they do and he understands why she would think that - it's their expression of tenderness; when the need to embrace her overwhelms him and he needs another outlet to stop himself from crushing her to him.

"No, our other thing." He's curious to see how long it will take her to deduce it; if it's even on her radar.

"Kiddo?" she tries again.

Apparently they have a lot of things. This one makes sense, too, since he had told her that it was his way of letting her know from a distance that she is important to him. He's dismayed that the options she lands on first are ones where he's treating her like a child, like she is lesser than he is; yet when he thinks of her, it's only with the utmost respect and admiration, because she’s more than his equal; she’s better in so many ways.

He shoots her a sidelong glance, deliberating whether or not to let her go on and he figures it’s Annie so he’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. “One more for the road?” he encourages.

She smiles in surrender and shakes her head. “Naw, just tell me.”

“If it please _Milady_.” It’s his emphasis on the word that catches her attention and he observes the moment it registers with her; the realisation transforming her face and making him feel warm all over.

“Oh,” is all she’s capable of in response.

He is actually delighted by how awed she is; that he can instill that kind of wonder in her. After a minute, she pulls herself together enough to say, “I didn’t – “

“Know?” he interrupts, turning so he’s entirely focused on her. “Annie,” he will admit his tone is slightly condescending because she really should know better, “I think you may have noticed how much you make me smile.”

Her answering smile gives him enough confidence to continue.

"Do you have any idea how monumental of a task that is?"

She starts shaking her head so he comments, “Of course you don’t, because it’s as easy as breathing for you. Oh, don’t look so smug, you also have this insane ability to infuriate me to no end –“

She chuckles and swats at his chest. He snatches her hand at the wrist and holds it in place, against the steady beat of his heart. His thumb strokes down the length of her fingers and he feels her shiver, relishing her reaction.

“That’s the most important thing,” he informs her and it is absolutely imperative to him that she understand her part in his life; the effect she has had on him. “You make me care about things. You make me want things. You make me feel…profoundly.” It's ridiculous how much, actually.

She’s looking at him and he knows she’s always been able to see right through him so he lays it all out for her. “And I’m tired of trying to fight us, fight this. It makes me sick every time I try to do what’s right but end up hurting you anyway. I can’t do it anymore.”

He bends his head to brush his lips against her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Jeff,” she whispers, her hand deftly sliding up to rest against his cheek. He raises his eyes to her, feeling every bit unworthy of her as he ever deemed himself to be but somehow knowing that he’s not – because she believes better of him.

“I love you, Annie.”

Her breath hitches at his words, the pressure of her hand on his cheek increasing and his heart soars because now that he has been able to tell her, he understands exactly how much.

"You love me?" she questions, gutting him because he has always given her reason to doubt it.

"I’m in love with you," he reiterates, pretty sure that the rawness in his voice is affirmation enough.

Her eyes drop to his mouth, where the words have just left and the gesture is a seduction all its own. He so very much wants to taste her again. He’s been denying himself for so long and the heat in her eyes as she looks at him lets his know he's approaching his breaking point. It also makes him think she wants to taste him just as much so he leans in, his arm sliding around her and he stops when he is but a hair’s breadth away from her, breathing in her air. He wants it to be her decision; he needs her to give him a sign.

Here’s the thing: he knows what it’s like to kiss her; try as he might – and try, he certainly did – he was never able to forget. And that had been when his feelings for her were nascent. He cannot imagine what it would be like to kiss her now, knowing what he does, feeling what he does; knowing how she feels, too.

He remembers what it felt like the first time it happened. She took him by surprise, pulling him from behind to passionately merge their lips, her fingers caressing his jaw as he was swept up in the moment. He remembers feeling alive, the adrenaline of revelation coursing through him.

The second time it happened, she had again initiated it. But then she pulled away and when he looked at her, amid all the craziness that he’d been caught up in that night, she was a sanctuary. As her lips moved against his, he was reminded of the spark she had ignited with the kiss at the debate and he pulled her close, happy she was staying and content to bask in her warmth.

So now when he’s waiting to see if she still wants him, his heart is pounding out of his chest and he feels like he will explode without her.

She lets out a sigh, as if she, too, is powerless against the magnetism between them, pushing up to meld her mouth to his.

He moves slowly, savouring every detail and mentally filing it away. Her hand is clutching his shirt, fingers curled tightly around the edge and he believes that it's more because she needs the support than that she's pulling him towards her. He's enveloped by her scent, the light notes of her perfume mixing with her skin, combining to make him lose his mind. He wants to touch his tongue to the base of her neck and taste it but he'll keep that for later. It strikes him that he’s pushing it, so convinced that there will _be_ a later but he realises it's just that he wants it – wants her – so much.

Her lips are soft and he gently opens them with his own to pull her bottom lip between his teeth and run his tongue along the length of it. His beard rasps against her smooth skin and the sensation makes him tingle. He wonders if she is enjoying kissing him as much as he is her. Both his arms wrap around her, drawing her nearer to him and he, embarrassingly so, audibly gasps when she flicks her tongue against his lips, using his reaction to slide inside his mouth and greet his own tongue with enthusiasm.

Her fingers dance along his nape, sending shocks to every nerve ending in him and he thinks they've lost track of who should have been seducing whom here. His hands are moving up and down her sides, tracing the curve that dips into her waist and it’s slowly relaxing her. When he feels more of her weight leaning on him, one hand makes its way into her hair and the way it feels urges him to force his way into her mouth and circle her tongue.

Her breathing speeds up, causing her to further lean into him; when he feels the weight of her breasts against his own chest, her rapid breaths pressing them sweetly against him, he shivers, sliding back on the couch and dragging her on top of him. Her hair falls around them, creating this indulgent bubble and he has to remind himself to keep his hands around her waist, no matter how much he wants to move them elsewhere; it's difficult, though, because she's starting to move enticingly against him, robbing him of his breath.

He should have known, he thinks. He should have known kissing her would set him on fire and be his undoing. He reckons that he probably did and that's why he purposely avoided it for so long.

She is warm, soft, delicious woman and he is certain his body is providing her with physical evidence of it.

“Annie,” he growls, the way her name leaves him indicative of his state.

She traps his bottom lip between hers, biting down and tugging it towards her, sipping from him as she pulls away, tossing his head back on the armrest behind him.

“Temptress,” he declares, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.

Her smile is downright beguiling, laced with pride and delight at the ardour she inspired in him.

“What? A declaration of love deserves something…passionate,” she reasons.

She’s playing with him, using that word with a twinkle in her eye and he likes it because they’re back to needling each other, yet another thing they do. She is practically lying on top of him; his hands keeping her in place as his fingers stroke her back and he is utterly content to stay there, as long as she’s there, too.

“No complaints from me,” he informs her. “It’s good to have an idea of what’s going on inside that head of yours.”

She looks at him quizzically. “You don’t know? Even after this?” She lifts her hand slightly to gesture between them.

He cocks his head at her, giving her a knowing smile. “You’re the one who said you didn’t know.”

With a sigh, she drops her head to rest her cheek against his chest, her head tucked under his chin. His fingers thread through her hair and a motion that’s meant to soothe her actually calms him instead.

“I know, I just – what was I supposed to think? A few months ago you were engaged to Britta!”

“For all of two seconds,” he scoffs, mainly at himself.

His hand reaches under her chin, tilting her head to look at him. “Mistake is an understatement for what that was. And you knew it. You didn’t just save Greendale that day, you know; you saved me, too.”

Emotion clouds her eyes and he smiles, dropping a kiss on her forehead. He’s grateful that she’s still here with him – on top of him, actually – and she isn’t running from the intimacy of their discussion. He is also heartened by her level of comfort with the situation; he can’t forget that she walked away from him in that lab and he hadn’t been sure if she would ever come back to him.

“Why didn’t you say anything? You’ve had all summer.”

Because he was scared. Scared that in the moment when reality crashed over him, he’d lost her forever because of his stupidity. He can’t look at her when he admits this but he owes it to her; he owes so much to her.

“Because you gave up on me,” he whispers, looking at the top of her hair, noticing the way the light hits it, making it glisten.

“Oh Jeff,” she breathes. He continues.

“You've been the one person to never give up on me. But you did in that basement and I understood why. I didn’t think it was fair to pull you back into this cycle we have if I wasn’t ready to change it.”

“Are you ready now?” she inquires, hesitantly.

He lowers his gaze a fraction, blue meeting blue. “Yes.”

She gives him a tentative smile and he pushes a lock of hair off her face.

“How do you feel about that?” he prompts, highly aware that her answer has the power to shatter him. There was a reason he was scared of all of this.

One of her fingers glides along his collarbone. It’s titillating, raising the hair at the back of his neck.

“I like it,” she states, leaning forward to trail soft, wet, hot kisses in the wake of her finger. His skin is absolutely throbbing beneath the warmth of her breath and her scintillating touch. Her nose runs a slow path up his neck, moving over the jut of his Adam’s apple, up over his chin, gently nuzzling his beard before dipping into the hollow just beneath his bottom lip.

Planting her lips on his before pulling away, she tells him, “I love you, too, you know.”

Her words light up his entire existence and he grants her his most genuine smile – the one that only ever appears because of her. He is delighted that she still wants to; that she hadn’t moved on from him as quickly as he feared and he knows it’s now his job to make sure they don’t lose each other again.

“Enough to give me another chance?”

She pretends to consider his proposal for a moment, face darkening playfully as she asserts, “I kinda think I have to. I mean, using the amount of…passion… you feel for me to power up Racquel is one heck of a persuasive argument.”

He doesn’t know why but that makes him laugh – a rich, toss-his-head-back kind of laugh. He pulls her closer against him, her face snuggled into his neck so she feels the vibrations from his mirth rumbling through her.

“Good to know I still got it,” he remarks. A thought flits into his mind and he wonders if it’s a good idea to voice it; if it would be too precipitate of him. He goes for it, anyway, because he is enjoying having her here, like this.

“Do you want to stay over?” She stiffens beneath him so he rushes to put her at ease. “No pressure,” he promises, resting his cheek against her head. “Just that this is nice.”

She turns her head, pressing a kiss to his neck. “It is,” she breathes into his skin, punctuating her agreement with another kiss higher up his neck. “But-”

is followed by a kiss just under his ear,

“we can see -”

a kiss now traces along his jaw,

“where the night-,”

her lips brush against his,

"takes us."

Her heartbeat against his is his salvation and strength in one; it gives him the tenacity to want to see wherever tonight, tomorrow night, the night after and the rest of their lives take them – as long as they're together.

He doesn't move his lips from hers when he replies, "As you wish, Milady."


End file.
